


Sacrament

by LogicalBookThief



Category: The Exorcist (TV)
Genre: Domestic, Fake Marriage, Fake/Pretend Relationship, Holding Hands, I need like a dozen fics of their six-month road trip shenanigans stat, M/M, Morning Cuddles, Morning Sex, Pining, Sharing a Bed, they're in love so jot that down
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-27
Updated: 2017-12-31
Packaged: 2019-01-22 13:14:50
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 11,643
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12482420
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LogicalBookThief/pseuds/LogicalBookThief
Summary: Four times one of them pretended to be married to the other for practical reasons and one time it wasn't so necessary.





	1. The Honeymoon Suite

**Author's Note:**

> I'll put fluff and hurt/comfort for these two in the ao3 tag if it's the last thing I do.
> 
> Idk, as soon as I heard "we've been on the road together for 6 months" I heard "more bed-sharing, intimacy, people assuming they're in a relationship and UST than you can shake a crucifix at" and I need at least a dozen fics of that being explored, please and thank you.

"Sorry," says the girl at the front desk. Tiffany, her name tag reads. "We're heavily booked this weekend. No doubles available."

 _"This_ place?" Marcus sneers. She shrugs in agreement.

"I dunno what to tell you, dude. It's the homecoming football game, everybody and their brother drive out, you know how it is."

"What _is_ available, then?" he asks, testily. It has been a very long day for him, as an exorcist; he's filled up his quota of aggravating bullshit. Then again, it's 1am on a Saturday, so he can't imagine she's enjoying herself all that much, either.

"Hmm, we've got-" She taps at the keyboard. "Two singles, the honeymoon suite-"

Marcus looks up. "Honeymoon suite?"

"Yeah. Do they use that phrase across the pond? Newlyweds. Lovey-doveys. Turtle-"

"A lot of doves, I got it," Marcus interjects, pausing for reflection. "And this is better than your usual fare, right?"

"Probably. And you get a discount."

"We'll take it," Marcus decides, already fishing out his wallet.

"Oh,  _we_ will?" asks Tiffany, her lips curling into a smirk. "So who's the lucky dove?"

Tomas chooses that opportune moment to walk through the doors, his duffel bag slung over one shoulder and Marcus' over the other. "That'll be him now," Marcus drawls, catching her once-over Tomas in a way that shouldn't fill him with as much pride as it does. Tomas isn't his _actual_ husband, he reminds.

"Hello," Tomas says with a weary smile to Tiffany, who fairly swoons. To Marcus, he murmurs, "Did you get us a room?"

"'Course. Only the best," Marcus says with airs, guiding him with a hand on his lower back, just for show. He spares Tiffany a glance over his shoulder and she gives him a huge thumbs up.

 _Nice!_ she mouths, shooting Tomas a final sigh of appreciation. Marcus stifles his laugh with a cough.

Tomas makes a beeline for the shower, and with the amount of times he'd been puked on tonight, Marcus doesn't blame him. It is an unspoken rule that whoever gets sprayed with the worst of bodily fluids earns first dibs.

He emerges clad only in a towel, must've forgot to bring his clothes in his hurry to be clean. There isn't a lot of modesty that remains between them at this point, two blokes living practically out of each other's pockets. Still, it seems slightly intrusive to ogle the man as he slips on a pair of boxers under his towel, revealing enough skin to make the imagination run wild.

But Marcus isn't a saint - hell, these days he's not even a _priest_ \- so he soaks in the curve of shoulder blades and the dimples that swell at the base of his lower back, the spot where his fingers glimpsed a mere twenty minutes ago.

"What was that about earlier, with you and the check-in girl?" asks Tomas, shrugging on a shirt.

"Nothing except me being my usual, charming self," Marcus answers.

"I see." Tomas hums, wryly. "So care to explain why's there a stock of condoms and lube in the bathroom?"

Marcus chokes on the beer he's nursing. "A stock?" he says, skeptical.

"A bushel?" Tomas tries, alternatively. "A basket. A store-"

"I get the idea," Marcus chortles. "Well, if you must know... I cheated our way into the honeymoon discount."

"Just like that?" Tomas snorts. He's amused, and it isn't that Marcus expected him to be angry at the ruse of them as a couple, but it is - nice to know, regardless. "No authentication necessary?"

"Guess not," Marcus ponders, scratching his chin; there's two days worth of stubble in need of a trim. "Reckon she wasn't exactly your model employee."

"Plus," he adds, "she was a bit distracted, what with mooning over my husband and his boyish good looks."

Tomas scoffs. "Sure," he says, like Marcus is taking the piss, like he has no fucking idea how many people notice how beautiful he is.

Marcus takes a swig of beer to deal with the ridiculousness of it all. 

Watching his drink covetously, Tomas asks, "Anymore of those?"

"Just the one," Marcus replies. Tomas frowns, and he's about to accuse him of pouting because he _knows_ it'll ruffle his feathers, when Tomas reaches forward and snatches the bottle.

Marcus swears and makes a grab, only to be foiled by Tomas gracefully leaping out of reach. 

"As your husband, I'm entitled to half your assets," Tomas laughs, batting his pretty eyes, and Marcus is ashamed to admit that it drains the ire out of him like liquid.

"You're only my husband for tonight," Marcus grumbles.

"Better make the most of it, then," says Tomas, stealing a sip. There is an almost suggestive lilt to his words and Marcus' mouth runs dry. He recovers, obviously, because he is a fully-grown man, not some fanciful schoolboy.

He reclaims his drink with a swipe, although Tomas relents without any resistance, wiping the moisture off his lips with the underside of his palm. As his mouth connects with the rim, it occurs to Marcus that this is a secondhand kiss of sorts, the stain of another pair of lips still warm on the glass; the realization warms him far more than the alcohol ever could. 

The bed is large, dare he use the word _luxurious_ , yet Tomas stretches out next to him, their arms and legs bumping. Marcus should probably take his own shower, change his dirty clothes into something cleaner, comfier. However, he finds he's rather reluctant to move.

Despite the heaviness of day bearing down, neither is ready to sleep. Sometimes it's like that - the exorcism leaves you too wound up, too acutely aware of what lies in the dark, waiting. Tomas flicks on the television, flipping until he finds a telenovela, where the characters are embroiled in a rapidly escalating discussion. Tomas makes a pleased little sound.

"I'm two months behind," he says with a grin, and Marcus remembers now, that he did this in Chicago, too ( _they_ did this, when he was an unofficial occupant who'd taken up residence in Tomas' apartment). He explained it once as a guilty pleasure, passed down from his abuela, all the evenings he spent with her watching the drama unfold. 

Marcus settles in to watch, more interested in the emphatic argument than whatever convoluted story-line the writers cooked up. He interjects every now and again, receiving either a shush or an amused side-eye, but for the most part they watch in companionable silence.

Intermittently, he hands over the beer, which Tomas accepts in bemusement; this sets up a dangerous precedent, he realizes, but what the hell. He'll act like a total hardass tomorrow and make up for it. Have to keep his protege on his toes, after all. 

Once the bottle is finally empty, he resigns himself to getting up. He moves with a groan, his bones creaking in protest, yet is surprised when the sound is mirrored by his bed-mate. 

Marcus arches a brow at him. 

"You were warm," Tomas says simply, yawning. "For a honeymoon suite, they aren't keen on heat."

"Expect they think we'll be producing our own heat," Marcus points out, and on cue, a faint blush scorches Tomas' cheeks as he chuckles, hoarse with exhaustion. Marcus retreats to the bathroom before he's bewitched into postponing his shower, again.

When he returns, the telenovela is still on, but Tomas has checked out. His breaths are even, his body relaxed in sleep. 

Sleeping on _his_ side of the bed, that is. Tomas must've drifted, subconsciously or purposefully, towads the warm spot Marcus vacated. This didn't leave much room for his bedmate, aside from being spooned up against him. 

There is no easy way to maneuver him into less of a sprawl, and Marcus isn't keen on disturbing him, anyhow. So he merely untucks the blanket from under Tomas before spreading it over them both, inserting himself so that if leans forward the barest inches, he'll have his face buried in Tomas' neck. Even now, the scent of motel soap tickles his nose.

Bundled on his side, there's nowhere to go with his arm, except over Tomas. He tentatively sneaks it over, feeling gooseflesh where they connect. He mentioned being cold, Marcus recalls, and with resolve wraps his arm around Tomas more snugly. 

 _Half his assets_ , he snorts as he falls asleep. The irony was that if Tomas knew how much of Marcus he already owned, he'd know it was the height of foolishness to ever demand such a small sum. 


	2. Welcome to the Neighborhood

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Can i just say how floored I am by the response to this fic?? Ya'll are so nice (and starved for content, I know; me, too) and it makes my day to see all of your lovely feedback, let me tell you. So thanks for being awesome!
> 
> Anywho- Happy Halloween! Enjoy this not-so-spooky but still fun installment.

"So let me get this straight," Marcus begins. His lips quirk. "Rather,  _un_ straight-"

"If you refuse to take this seriously," Tomas warns, raising a brow, "I'm going with the backup story, which is that you're my  _uncle._ "

Marcus scowls. "I am not  _nearly_  old enough."

He smiles a little enigmatic smile as if to say:  _Sure, sure_. Marcus bristles at the teasing and it fills Tomas with a giddy feeling. He's learned to cherish these soft, inexplicable moments between jobs, for as long as they're willing to last.

In a twist of their usual  _modus operandi_ , the person who's reached out to them isn't a parent, guardian or relative. Kurt Howard of Prairie Village, Kansas just happens to have a son befriended the girl who recently moved in next door. About a week ago, his son told Kurt that the girl confided in him, telling her friend that she didn't feel right in her new house, that something was  _after_  her, and not something her parents could see or understand. It was why she fled to their house on the weekends, why Kurt woke up some nights to find her curled in a sleeping bag on his son's floor, where she felt safest.

Kurt chalked it up to anxiety and was debating on whether to talk to her directly or go her parents, yet before he could do so, he caught her standing in his living room one night after the kids were supposed to be in bed, speaking to empty air. Only it wasn't  _her_  voice he heard. And according to him, it wasn't even English.

Unnerved by this event, he phoned the church for help, who handed the case to Bennet, who in turn referred them to the Howard residence. And that was how they ended up staying in Kurt's guest bedroom, for the sole purpose of gathering enough evidence to proceed with an exorcism.

Will, Kurt's thirteen-year-old, is old enough to realize something is amiss yet isn't as phased by the two strange men sleeping a room away from his as Tomas imagined he would be. "I don't mind, it's kind of _cool_. Like we're doing a Buzzfeed Unsolved," he gushes.

"Like we're a  _what?_ " Marcus deadpans, searching Tomas for elaboration. Tomas, who actually comprehends this particular reference, seals his lips with a grin of defiance.

The girl's parents, the Waltons, are hosting a barbecue this weekend, a way of acquainting themselves with the neighborhood. Kurt insisted they go to her parents with his story immediately, but Marcus argued that unless they already believed a supernatural entity was involved, trying to convince them would label them lunatics and make it that much more difficult to help the girl.

For now, what they need to do is observe her from a distance, undetected. So Kurt plans to introduce Marcus as his cousin, visiting from out of town.

But the problem is, Marcus sees no reason to expand the cover-story beyond that.

Maybe, Tomas relents, it's a sin of pride to enjoy his expertise in this area. He's inexperienced in everything else they do, the greenhorn, who's trying to learn but it's slow-going. Marcus doesn't ever let him forget that fact, either.

When it comes to interpersonal relations, though, and dealing with people when it doesn't involve life or death situations? That is more his forte. Running a parish has made him adept at that much.

"Look, what are we going to say during small-talk? Even if I say I'm a priest, we're still two men who pass from town to town, usually pay in cash, stay in motels... We can't talk about work,  _obviously_ , which is more suspicious." Tomas levels him with the full force of his exasperation. "They are going to think we're serial murderers. Or criminals, at least."

"Well, that part is true, innit?" Marcus says seriously. "I stole a pack of gum once."

Tomas plows on, ignoring his cheek. "But if we're a couple-"

"We'll seem benign, which aids the investigation," Marcus finishes, raising his hands in defeat. "Time's have changed. Used to be the reverse, more often than not."

Hearing the soft-spoken admission that is two parts revelation, one part bitterness briefly steals Tomas breath. He's felt it before, this unbearable flare of sympathy and sadness - the first time he met the man, during his dream in which Tomas played spectator to that awful tragedy, and then again in the pews of St. Anthony's, after the excommunication. Tomas is empathetic, chronically susceptible to the woes of others. Yet Marcus' grief is significant in that he feels it as keenly as his own; it is enough that he wishes he could reach inside and heap half of the pain into his own heart, if only to soothe the weariness that sometimes adorns his partner's face. 

"So it's decided," he says faintly, recovering his train of thought. Marcus nods, claps him on the back.

"I'll leave that to you,  _darling_." He punctuates with an endearment, and it  _must_  be on purpose, how he whispers it right in Tomas' ear while he passes. It takes every once of restraint not to shiver in his presence. "You're the one up-to-date on all the teen fads and little old lady gossip. I trust you'll fashion us a perfectly respectable history."

"Very funny." Tomas yells after him, "I change my mind - I'm making you my  _aged_  uncle!"

*

*

*

*

"Why're we bringing potato salad?" Will mutters, scrunching up his nose. 

"It's the most inconspicuous side dish," Kurt says with a straight-face. 

Tomas stifles a snort, overhearing the exchange. Occasionally, it astonishes him how adeptly parents answer such questions/ Olivia was rarely caught wrong-footed by Luis' most ridiculous requests; even Tomas has learned to hone this skill, although he wouldn't count himself an expert. 

A short, sharp pang of longing for home hits him unexpectedly. Not home as in Chicago, exactly - home as in his sister, his nephew, his apartment and his parish. He shakes his head, focuses on the sensation of Marcus' fingers twined with his, the steady gait of his feet as they walk in step with each other.

"Your hand is sweaty," Tomas whispers to his partner. 

"Sweet of you to say," Marcus retorts. "We're posing as lovebirds, remember?"

"Your hand is sweaty,  _dear_."

Marcus squeezes in retaliation, but Tomas can't find much to complain about  _there_. 

Once they cross the lawn, the smell of charcoal becomes stronger. Will scurries off to where the group of kids have congregated. "Kurt!" calls a woman, waving them over. Kurt shoots them a silent message before they go to meet her and her husband. 

"Geri, David!"  _Showtime_ , Tomas braces. "Nice to see you two!"

"Glad you could make it," says David.

Kurt nods to them. "This is my cousin I told you about, Marcus. And his husband, Tomas."

They shake hands.

"Marcus, Thomas," Geri greets. Tomas maintains a mild expression, though the mispronunciation isn't unnoticed. He always debates on whether to bring it up, whether the situation allows for him to do so without complication.

"It's Tomas, actually," Marcus interjects smoothly, surprising Tomas with his promptness. Something warm and fluttery settles in his belly. 

"Oh! Of course, I'm sorry," Geri hurries to say. Tomas brushes it aside amicably.

"What brings you to town?" David inquires. It's a casual remark, one they've prepared for.

"Business," Marcus replies. They're standing at an odd distance, so Tomas shifts closer, making their linked hands less of bridge. 

"He's an artist," Tomas supplies, affecting a note of adoration. It is not an exaggeration, really; he thinks of Marcus' bible, adorned with sketches, some he's seen, some of which he's only caught glimpses. All of them beautiful and personal in their own way.

"Freelance, mostly," Marcus says breezily. He's oozed into this role, Tomas notes.

"I minored in Art History in college," David remarks, wistful. "Never had the guts to wade out into the art field, though. Kudos."

Geri chuckles. "What about you, Tomas?" she asks, and her pronunciation is perfect this time around. 

"A counselor." Again, not far from the truth; it's close enough to hearing confession, anyway.

"Really?" Geri looks interested, though her eyes dart around, somewhat leery. "Do you...do any work with kids?"

"Some, yes," Tomas replies, carefully.

"Not to put you on the spot or anything," she says, swiftly dispelling the tense atmosphere. "It's just we - our daughter has been struggling to adjust to the move, we think. She's at that age, you know. It's hard for her."

Tomas nods in understanding. Beside of him, Marcus listens intently. "How old is she?"

"Twelve," Geri replies, nodding towards a girl in the group of kids playing by the swing-set, a girl with braids and a sort of distant solemnity to her expression. Marcus follows the gaze and Tomas knows he's making a mental note of their potential candidate.

"I have a nephew around that age. Back in Chicago," Tomas adds to keep the conversation flowing.

"Aw. Must miss his uncles," David says, and the strange thing is, Tomas doesn't think to correct the plural. "No kids of your own?"

Marcus stiffens. "It's-" Tomas begins, meaning to salvage a response with  _it's too early for that_.

But he's brought to a gaping stop when he's playfully groped. 

"Not for lack of trying," Marcus interrupts, winking at the pair. "'Course the fun is in trying."

Unprepared, Tomas feels a flush spread like wildfire, all the way down to the nape of his neck. Geri and David, of course, absolutely love it and laugh uproariously. He pastes on a sheepish smile while Marcus, the bastard, looks like he's found his element.

"You could've warned me," Tomas grunts after they excuse themselves to grab refreshments. Marcus grins, unrepentant.

Petulantly and with no real bite, he threatens, "I'll break your tape player."

"I'd break your arm if you tried."

"Then I'll replace all your tapes with mariachi music."

Marcus sends him a sidelong glance, momentarily perturbed. "You're bluffing," he sniffs. "If you do that, then I won't be able to serenade you."

"True," Tomas concedes, noticing out of the corner of his eye how Marcus balks, hardly expecting him to agree so easily. His grin stretches into something wider, genuine, and emanating self-satisfaction.

He leads Tomas away from the fray, the sounds of the party fading as they sneak off. Abruptly, Marcus releases his grip and Tomas frowns. 

"Breaking and entering?" he sighs. "Is that necessary?"

"Ain't a crime if the door is open," Marcus replies. "Just two chaps searching for the bathroom."

Rolling his eyes, Tomas holds open the door. "After you," he says chivalrously, only for Marcus to barge past him without a word. So much for the honeymoon stage. 

"Girl says the house has it out for her," he says in regard to his earlier question. "Let's see if we can't scrounge up some of that animosity."

He has a point, Tomas reckons, but it still seems like a a gross invasion of privacy as they poke around these strangers' home. Nothing feels out of the ordinary, yet he has this sense of forebode that has no basis in objectivity. Before he can mention it, he hears the distinct echo of footsteps as they ascend the stairs. They freeze, eyes meeting in sustained panic. 

"Someone's coming," Tomas whispers. He isn't stating the obvious so much as asking what their next move is. They're on the second floor, which presents a problem, because there is most certainly a bathroom available on the first; they have no reason to be here, unless they have ulterior motives.  

Whoever it is continues to get closer, yet Marcus hasn't given any tacit signal, no gesture to communicate the plan. His posture is stiff, eyes distant and calculating, and Tomas is a patient man, but he can't wait much longer before they're caught-

Then in a single, sudden movement Marcus backs him against the wall, connecting their lips in a kiss. After the second of shock wear off, Tomas melts into it, embarrassingly pliant as he slots his mouth against the rhythm set.

Distantly he hears the footsteps abruptly stop, turn, and patter into the distance. Another dizzying, oxygen-deprived moment passes before Marcus disengages. The only sound that breaches the silence is their panting, intermingling breaths. 

"Again, all I ask is that you  _warn_  me," Tomas huffs.

"Thought a snog would scare 'em off," says Marcus, peering around the corner.

"Well, you were right," Tomas deadpans. "Don't look so smug."

Marcus snorts. "Admit it, you're only sore 'cause I managed to catch you by surprise not once, but twice."

Be that as it may, Tomas won't ever hear the end of it if he admits that. "When we're undercover, it doesn't hurt to inform your partner of what you're up to," he says, primly. "So I can play my part."

"Your part was to sit back and be ravished." Marcus frowns, two brows knitting together in consternation. "You didn't even have to kiss back."

Heat creeps up Tomas' neck. Hadn't occurred to him, honestly. 

"And break character?" he scoffs, meekly. "Please, I - I'm a professional."

It has become more and more apparent that he's a professional  _liar_ , if anything. A teller of semi-lies and almost-truths. To the Waltons, to Marcus, and worst of all, to himself. Lying isn't so hard, when you don't know quite who you are (he's always envied that about Marcus. his implacable sense of self, his adamant belief in the divine purpose he served) yet even the best lies start to pile up after a while.

But what had Marcus told him, not long after he'd signed onto this excursion?  _In for a penny, in for a pound_.

So what's one more half-truth, against dozens of others?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Honestly, there could be a whole chapter story on these two being a fake-couple for a case. Nonetheless, I'm content with how this one turned out. 
> 
> The next chapter will probably take a little longer than this one did, 'cause I have less of it written and school is bound to get in the way. In the meantime, we'll all be dying this Friday with the new episode, so that should be swell. As always, lemme know what you thought down below!


	3. Next of Kin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the wait, everyone! It has been a Week of school & work and this next one isn't shaping up much better. But the new episode this week?? I'm still screaming, I cannot wAIT for this Friday.
> 
> There's some angst this time - inevitably, because these two are just like that - but it's still mostly soft and sweet. Also note: I have no knowledge of how hospitals function, so use your suspension of disbelief for some of the details lol.

Marcus is going to  _kill_  Tomas, when this is all over.

Not here, among doctors and nurses and various medical professionals. No, that would entirely defeat the purpose of what he means to do. 

This nurse finishes with his wrist, asks Marcus, "How's that feel?" 

"Fine," he replies brusquely. Without his usual charm, and really, that's only partially to blame on Tomas. The other half of his ire can be attributed to the location. 

Hospitals aren't his favorite place and he avoids them when possible - and not merely because invasive questions in his line of work tend to require a lot of creative fibs. He's got a disinclination that is leftover from his days at the orphanage, muddled and frightful days spent in the infirmary after the older boys roughed him up; the discomfort has followed him all these years since.

For Tomas, he thinks he'd endured worse. _Doesn't_ mean that bloody fool's off the hook, not by a long-shot.

Marcus escapes the nurse's prods at the earliest opportunity. The sprain in his wrist throbs, although by now it's muted. What reluctant gratitude he has for the treatment bleeds dry when he tries to locate a person who'll tell him where Tomas is, what's going on, everything he missed when they dragged him off for an X-Ray. 

God granted Marcus with only so much patience - and these days, He's stingy withanythinghe gives Marcus, let alone virtues. By the time he finds a doctor who can give him the answers he seeks, he's whittled down to his last vestige of grace and decorum. The doctor, to her credit, seems to sense this; she takes a minute to read the stress lines etched into his face and observe the cut on his chin that'll be framed by a shiny bruise come morning. He doesn't look the type to pick a fight with. She doesn't look the type to be intimidated, either.

"Mr. Ortega will be fine, he's in recovery," she confirms, quick and straightforward. "We want to keep him for observation, but he'll be discharged in the morning."

A dull  _pop_ echoes in his ears. His knuckles, as they loosen from the coiled fist he'd unconsciously carried with him for the past two hours. But at last, the tension rolls off his shoulders like shedding layers of wool, crawling towards a flaming hearth after a cold night. The relief leeches nearly all sense from his brain, spurs him on to dizzying heights of impulse. 

"Can I see him?"

"Are you family?" she presses. He pauses a beat too long and the doctor begins to shakes her head. "If not, I can't-"

"I'm his partner," Marcus blurts. There are no pretenses of stress or stupidity he can blame and no ignorance to feign, because there is no doubt in his mind as to how she will interpret this.

"Oh," she says, predictably. "Well, that's a different story."

She walks through the corridor with confident strides, borne of practice; Marcus follows at a pace behind. Keeps his eyes locked straight ahead, refusing to glance at the passerby, the masses of sick and injured. He focuses his thoughts on Tomas, plans all the reprimands he's got in store, already picturing the curve of his protege's guilty, Catholic slouch.

"Don't worry if he's in and out of it," the doctor assures, putting a damper on that idea. "Those are the drugs in his system."

Tomas is asleep when he enters, alone. And that's for the best, so he can't see Marcus' righteous ball of anger implode, the spiel dying on his tongue the second he catches a glimpse of Tomas. He isn't too worse for wear, all things considered, though his skin has this washed-out glow that may have more to do with the ghastly lighting in this room. A ring of dark bruises stand out sharply against his neck - a crude, drawn-on necklace of color.

Marcus winces, his top molars grinding against the bottom.  "All night, huh." He hooks his ankle around the visitor's chair, pulls it so he's settled at the bedside. "Not the worst accommodations, eh? Beats sleepin' in the truck, you'd say."

He scoffs aloud, expecting no response. But Tomas stirs almost imperceptibly, as though in a dream. His lips scarcely move and whatever comes out is unintelligible. Even his mumbling sounds hoarse. Marcus can't quite tell, but it sounds a little like the name "Luis." 

Despite all the shite he's dealt with tonight, Marcus smiles at that. Truth be told, Tomas' nephew is one of the cutest kids he's ever met. He had gotten to know the lad briefly, before he and Tomas embarked on their endeavor.

For a man who asked Marcus to take him under his wing, Tomas balked at the notion of leaving one day out of the blue, as is Marcus' wont. He insisted he stay until his sister completed a few interviews she had lined up, so she could find a permanent position with steady hours, otherwise there would be nobody to care for Luis. Nobody Olivia could afford, anyway. 

So Marcus reclaimed his spot on Tomas' couch for this interim. Olivia cast him wary looks here and there, as though trying to discern what his intentions were, besides leading her brother into the unknown horrors this job entailed. He's still ninety percent sure she suspects they were fucking, demons or no. 

Luis was less cautious, more free in his love. The boy overcame his timidity with relative ease; it probably helped that Tomas and Marcus had attained an effortless sort of intimacy by this point, and any bloke could see how much Luis adored his uncle, how much he trusted his opinion. What touched Marcus quite a bit was that Tomas placed that trust in his person. It was one thing to trust Marcus to watch his back during an exorcism; it was a whole 'nother to trust him with his family.

Lo and behold, though, if Tomas had an errand to run or any boring business to attend to, he'd leave Luis in Marcus' care. And only regretted this decision once. 

_"Are you letting him watch a horror movie?"_

_"You said keep him occupied."_

_Tomas swore under his breath. "My sister will maim m- will maim_ us _if he gets nightmares."_

 _"Relax. I'm pointing out all the inconsistencies. We're having a good laugh. Turns out, Hollywood doesn't know shite."  He grins, nudging Tomas._   _"Jealous that I'm the cool one?"_

_"The cool one is dead meat, as far as Olivia's concerned," Tomas replies, and yes, Marcus has faced all manner of hell in his years of service to the church, but a mother's wrath isn't to be taken lightly. So he asks that Luis keep this a secret, just between them, and ignores Tomas' chuckle._

Some days he thinks that if he cared as much as he claimed, he'd send Tomas home to Chicago. Home to his sister, his nephew, and the shiny new parish they offered - comforts Marcus has rarely known. 

Of course, that's assuming his disapproval would deter Tomas in the slightest. Knowing him like he does, like he does  _now_ , Marcus understands that nothing fuels Tomas so much as pure, unfettered obstinacy. In moments where Tomas reminds him of this, he realizes that even if he set Tomas loose, the man would likely find more trouble than he already does. Best to have him where Marcus can keep an eye on him, at least. Best they stay together, where Tomas can keep an eye on him to boot. 

Marcus grasps his hand where it sits limply on starch sheets, lacing tan fingers with his own. For  _show_ , he emphasizes. Nothing to do with the steady thrum of a pulse against his flesh, the proof of Tomas' living, breathing heart in the palm of his hand.

Occasionally, a nurse putters into the room, suggesting pain meds or checking vitals. Darryl, he learns. 

"It's pretty," Darryl remarks, referring to the string of words that flow from his lips in low tones. "Is it a prayer?"

"Uh, no." Marcus snorts. Hasn't the decency to flush. "Herbert, actually."

"Poetry," he explains in the ensuing bewilderment, flashing a tired smile. "Just a bit of nonsense, s'all. Passes the time."

"I'm sure your hubby appreciates it," says Darryl, kindly. His cheeks expand into a grin. "Reciting poetry on a hospital bed? That's grad level in romance, dude."

"Dude," Marcus huffs cynically, unable to restrain his chortle. If Darryl knew, he reflects, he may not view it so romantically. 

A sweet gesture it was, maybe, but a poor substitute for prayer. However, Marcus reckons he'd have better luck with the poets than with the prophets. Three months and counting, yet not a word from the man upstairs, no hint of guidance or approval. Just...silence, cold and empty.

He hasn't told Tomas. Marcus reasons that his reaction would be one of pity or doubt. He can't stand the thought of his pity, nor can he withstand his doubt, doubt in Marcus and his ability. Perhaps, inevitably, he'd start to doubt whether he needed Marcus at all.

Though if Tomas insists on pulling shit like this every now and again, well, he has nothing to fear in that regard. 

*

*

*

*

"Marcus?" Tomas utters, fuzzily. His eyes narrow, half-lidded. Add to this his mussed curls and he looks like he's merely woken from a very long nap.

On impulse, Marcus tries to flatten the unruly locks with his hand. Tomas turns into the touch, not unlike a cat.

Then Marcus remembers his misgivings, all of which have been heightened by every raspy breath from a sore throat, amplified by every throb of his wrist as it lay against the starch bedsheets.

He retracts his hand, painstakingly aware of his own reluctance. 

Tomas blinks at the loss, and through his daze, senses the tension. He furrows his brows, mumbles a confused, "What?" that is just shy of irreverent.

Marcus inhales through his nostrils. "Next time I say,  _don't_  engage-"

Something in his face sharpens at the reprimand. "If I hadn't engaged," Tomas sighs, probably because it hurts to yell, "it would've killed you."

"I had it under control," Marcus snaps. 

Tomas sags against the pillows that prop him up. "You're welcome," he mutters, sulkily. It jolts a laugh out of Marcus.

"Unbelievable," he barks. "Are you expecting a  _thank you_? After that thing nearly choked the life out of you?"

He frowns, lips parted in question. 

"Choked into unconsciousness," Marcus adds with spite, just for good measure. "And had to be resuscitated."

 _By me_ , Marcus hesitates to mention. Because it shouldn't matter that he tore the fabric from his throat, that his fingers brushed bulging tendons as they constricted for air, that he was the one who breathed life back into his lungs when for one, fleeting moment there was none. 

"I don't remember that," Tomas says thoughtfully, touching his tender ring around his neck. Marcus swallows, eyes darting away.

"Yeah, well. Remember  _this_... If the demon doesn't kill you next time,  _I_  will."

The vow is scathing, frankly enough to elicit a contrite pause. Yet Tomas negates every assumption when his shoulders shake instead of bow, and it isn't shame that makes them tremble, either. 

"What's so damn funny?" he seethes.

"Just... Is this your version of sweet nothings?" Tomas laughs, quietly. 

For once, Marcus comes up short.

"You-"

"The nurse called you my hubby."

"You were  _awake?"_

"Kind of," Tomas affirms. "Halfway, sometimes."

This development flabbergasts him more than he dares to admit. Tomas reaches for his hand, the injured one, and runs his fingertips across it with a gentleness that makes a chord inside of Marcus quiver. 

"I don't mind," he hums languidly. "They wouldn't have let you in otherwise."

When he manages to eke out his words, they are rougher than he'd like. "They weren't keen to refuse an ugly mug like mine," he says, gestures to his new ridges and welts. 

"Makes you look rugged."  Tomas assesses the damage. "Like you did after that bar-fight in Milwaukee."

"A fight that  _you_  started."

"That  _you_  finished." His eyes are bright with mirth, the haze lifting; yet his voice is serious and full of reproach. "I told you not to let me drink while we watched the soccer game."

"Lucky for you that guy was a fucking prick, or I'd have left it to you," Marcus grumbles. That wrangles out a chuckle, whether because Tomas recognizes the lie or simply finds it funny.

Clearly, he's lost his steam, so the real dressing-down will have to be postponed. Meanwhile, the revelation that Tomas wants him right here at his side slides pleasantly into the space between his ribs.

Marcus hasn't grappled with his worth in this world, not since he was twelve-years-old, squaring up against a creature of immeasurable evil and feeling only a sense of unutterable relief. His work is necessary, and so, Marcus is a necessity. Even if God stops talking, the cases don't cease.

(In another wing of this hospital, there is a young man who - if his blisters fade enough in time, will live to see his prom and who will live,  _period_  - is proof of that).

 _Wanting_  him, though. That is a novelty Marcus has been hard-pressed to accept, even when his mother was alive - even before he'd loved and lost, not for the first or last time in his life. 

He has no words to express this to Tomas. Has no right, probably, not when Tomas has a little nephew and worried sister wanting him in Chicago, and somehow, Marcus has managed to steal him away from both. He shouldn't be proud of that. He  _isn't_.

Guilty is what he should be, but he isn't that, either. He wants Tomas, too. And with God's silence a sting of absence that hasn't gone unnoticed, he's got too few comforts to rely on these days.

If the man upstairs decides to be selfish in his correspondence, then Marcus figures he's owed a bit of selfishness in turn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It took me a bit to write this one out, but it's one of my absolute favorite tropes, where Injured Character A wakes up to Worried Character B. Hope you all enjoyed!
> 
> Last night/today's mood has been not so good, so if you'd like to send good vibes down below, it'd be much appreciated.


	4. Date Night

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somehow I think this is both my funniest and angstiest installment? Ha. Don't know how that happened. 
> 
> Again, thank you all so much for the nice responses! Hope you enjoy this one!

Doubled over his glass, Tomas laughs, deep and uninhibited. Through his half-lidded gaze, he catches the glint of Marcus' smirk reflected against their glasses, the amber liquid sloshing as he gesticulates outrageously during the ridiculous story he's telling, solely to watch how much booze he can force Tomas to snort out his nose, probably.

The rickety bar stools don't allow for much room between their splayed knees, but he presses closer to Marcus nonetheless, pleasing his partner, if the rumble of his chest (that Tomas feels through his own body, close as they are) proves to be any indication. Tomas decides that he likes to see Marcus pleased, more than any other emotion. It trumps  _petty_  and  _irritated_  by a landslide, slightly ahead of  _pushy_  and  _confident,_ which, for reasons he can't quite identify, make his insides quiver with unbidden delight. 

And Tomas can admit these things, because Tomas is indisputably  _drunk_. 

Typically, he's content to be the designated driver for nights of celebration such as these. He enjoys alcohol in moderation, preferring lucidity over the abandon of sobriety that Marcus finds so appealing. Losing his faculties isn't something he strives to do often, always apprehensive of the aftermath, when whatever he's done becomes irrevocable reality.

He's made an exception, tonight.

Marcus has been pestering him to get "properly sloshed," no doubt for his own amusement. But Tomas, who makes a profession out of denying himself what he wants, can't deny his friend that joy (or at least, can't deny his strange desire to please Marcus, to feel his approval shine across his face like a beam of God's grace). They chose tonight because they have a resounding success under their belts, so resounding that Tomas' reservations have rescinded. 

_You_   _did_   _well_ , Marcus huffed once the demon was banished and they emerged, barely bruised and still shaking with adrenaline. His long, nimble fingers clasped over the nape his neck, heads bent together. Tomas remembers how the quiver under his skin had burst and the shock-waves send shivers down his spine, happily, at the memory.

"Gotta take a leak," Marcus declares, snapping Tomas out of the past. He claps his shoulder as he stands, the heat of his palm lingering over the space just below his neck, where he'd grazed earlier. "Stay out of trouble while I'm gone."

Coyly, Tomas knits his brows, affronted by the mere suggestion. If anything, Marcus is the one always saying that should close the place down, punching his way through problems that prayer won't solve. He opens his mouth to point out this hypocrisy, as he sees it, but in the span of one blink and the next, Marcus has disappeared. No chance to be holier-than-thou, he huffs. 

The bar bounces with a lively atmosphere, drowned in music and vivacity; yet in Marcus' absence it's gone quiet in Tomas' head. His bearings roll sluggishly, gears turning at half their usual speed. It takes him far longer than normal to notice the presence of man, who's been sliding towards the seat beside of Tomas. And Tomas, wary of most strangers yet congenial all the same, feels the familiar stirrings of bewilderment and discomfort. The sensation abates when the man smiles, apparently friendly. 

He shares Marcus' flair for conversation, this guy, and chats him up with a grace Tomas fumbles to reciprocate. It isn't that he's less talkative while intoxicated - quite the opposite, actually. Yet he appears to be caught at a disadvantage here, because where he is languid in tone and voice this man is radiating  _intent_ , set on a goal that Tomas has not discerned.

A young woman at the bar, seated on the other side of this man, shoots Tomas increasingly exaggerated expressions with her eyes. Trying to convey a message or a question, perhaps - even a warning? Only when the man's elbow brushes against his, alerting him to how deliberately near he's shifted, do these details slide into place with such clarity that Tomas flares with embarrassment. 

Flustered, he fails to realize where this conversation is headed, the guy casually fishing out, "So, are you and your boyfriend-"

"My-? No, he's not," he replies automatically, cursing his loosened tongue in the same breath. That would've been the  _perfect_  excuse to avoid this pick-up.

"Oh," says the guy, relieved. "Yeah, that didn't add up."

"Didn't add up?" Tomas repeats, baffled by his meaning.

"You and him," he chuckles, gesturing vaguely. "You know, a guy like you, at your age and- well, if you're into that, but-"

Slowly, it becomes clear to his alcohol-addled mind; surely, it's supposed to be some form of flattery. All it comes across is a slight against Marcus. A thick, molten weight simmers low in his stomach.

For his admirer, Tomas cracks a smile, though it treads a dangerous line. He sips at the last few inches of his drink.

"Well, that is funny," he says, the humor hiding a vicious edge. "Because you didn't let me finish."

Down the bar, the woman leans forward, subtly tilting her ear in their direction.

"He isn't my boyfriend," Tomas says with great dignity. "He's my husband."

Admittedly, the man's rapid change from cocksure to rejected is satisfying. It doesn't help that the woman eavesdropping lets out an ungodly snort and quickly ducks her head into her drink. The man retreats so abruptly that it hardly registers on Tomas.

"Bravo." The woman raises her glass. "I've never seen a player abandon the field that fast."

"Refill?" asks the bartender, subtly amused. Rather proud of himself, Tomas nods.

"Ooh, Sydney, me too," says the woman, scooting over to claim the guy's vacated spot. Martha, she introduces. "Hey, why don't you tell us about your stud."

It takes a moment for his synapses to connect her request to the implications he's given. Then he realizes:  _She wants to hear about Marcus_.

Evidently the whisky does wonders for his social skills, because his grin comes easy, and he's ready to fabricate a romantic backstory simply to entertain these ladies. "What do you want to know?"

"Hm," she hums, drumming against the counter-top. "What was it that made you fall for him?"

Sydney looks archly across the bar. "That's what you ask?"

"Hey, I'm a sap!" In a stage-whisper, Martha adds: "And it's rude to ask for dirty stuff right off the bat."

Tomas guffaws. 

"I suppose... First, it was his eyes. When we met, they practically pinned me against wall." Technically not untrue. "Felt a little like fate, to be honest."

He can't imagine many "meet-cutes" begin with visions of an exorcism, after all.

"Aww, that's sweet," sighs Martha. "What else?"

"His smile," Tomas confides. He's smiling while he recounts it, the way that wide, genuine grins makes his chest feel a thousand times lighter, even if Tomas doesn't always let it show. "It's like...the years melt away from his face."

Sydney shakes her head at his gushing. "You make it sound like soulmates, lover boy."

Wistfully, Tomas nods. And maybe because of the liquor or maybe because he can, he says, "That, and he has a  _big_  - you know."

It is worth every ounce of inhibition lost to see Martha sputter into her drink and the unflappable Sydney so caught off guard she almost drops the glass in her grip.

" _Really?_ " Martha leans in, eyes round and interested. "Like, how big are we-"

"You want the measurements?!" Sydney exclaims.

What self-control that remains in Tomas goes towards not spiraling into a fit of giggles. "Big enough that the next day, I could barely-"

A hand claps onto his shoulder, firm and familiar.

"Enjoying yourself,  _darling_?"

Tomas stiffens, the mirth draining out of him like a tap. He's distantly aware of how his mouth gapes, stammering through an explanation, "I, uh-"

Martha gazes at Marcus with the tipsy awe of someone confronted with a celebrity, darting not-so-inconspicuous glances between his face and his waist, like she's trying to size up the ratio. 

"'Scuse us, ladies," Marcus interjects with a wink, and  _Jesus_ , if Tomas died on spot it'd be a blessing in disguise. "Think this one's had enough excitement for tonight. C'mon,  _luv_."

With all the propriety of a perfect gentleman, Marcus helps him stand. Tomas searches his pocket for a generous tip; it's the least he can do, subjecting Sydney to his conduct. From her stool, Martha waves animatedly. 

They walk - or sway, in his case - in blissful silence until they reach the end of the block; that's where Marcus' chivalry runs out. " _Someone_  was having a good time," he says, smirking.

"I  _was_ ," Tomas emphasizes with a groan. "H- How much did you hear?"

"Just the good bits," Marcus assures, which Tomas knows means  _all of it, you unlucky sod_. "So it's my eyes, is it?"

"You are," he sniffs, "the worst."

"No, no," Marcus clucks. "It was my enormous, throat-choking dick, yeah?"

Tomas spasms. "I,  _ha_ , didn't use-  _dios_ , that is the worst thing you've ever said-"

He laughs so hard he trips over his own goddamn feet. Marcus steadies him around the waist, pulling him close in the process. Tomas rights himself, buries his nose in a leather-clad shoulder, the scent of something that is unmistakably Marcus overwhelming him in one huff. Like the hit of a drug.

Marcus, who looks at him like every minute of his attempt to coordinate himself is Christmas come early. "Had a little too much?" he chuckles. 

"Could be," Tomas exhales against his neck, eliciting a shudder. "Are you ticklish?"

An incredulous noise erupts from Marcus. "Alright, you're going to bed."

"Yes, sir," Tomas slurrs.

"That's husband to you."

Gracelessly, they amble to the motel; Tomas may or may not step on his foot, twice, for spite's sake. Marcus retaliates by spilling him onto the comforter, which is a dull puce color that Tomas doesn't mind but Marcus loathes.

Tomas flops backwards with a sigh, blinking 'till the room stops its relentless spinning. By the time he's regained his sense of up, his shoes are already removed. Marcus prods until he agrees to cooperate, so he can wrestle with his jacket sleeves. Focusing on Marcus keeps him steady, yet does nothing to quell the frantic beat of his heart. Surely he doesn't  _have_  to slide his palm along Tomas' arms as he peels off the jacket, the friction a tease of warmth. Surely it's another test for Tomas, another attempt to lead him astray.

"Do you?" he asks, abruptly.

Marcus stares at him, full of affection. "Do I...?"

"Have a big..." He glances down, pointedly. That utterly  _slays_  Marcus. 

"You'd have to buy me dinner first," he says slyly. 

"I bought you a drink," Tomas reminds, tucking in his legs. Marcus snorts and leans over to fold the blanket over the rest of him. There's no need to pretend in this room, hidden from the prying eyes of strangers, yet he does it anyway. 

Boldness overcomes Tomas in a glorious moment of adoration. He aims for a kiss, misses, his mouth connecting with the underside of Marcus' chin. Three-day's worth of stubble scratches his lips at the brief contact, a pleasant drag against his skin. The angle is awkward, yet the tingle that shoots from neck to groin is undeniable.

Above him, Marcus goes rigid. 

He frowns, because those years have returned, drawing pain into an unmarred canvas. "Sorry," Tomas apologizes, reaching up to smooth away the furrows.

Gently, Marcus grabs his roving hands tucks them into the blanket before he moves away. Not a retreat, but it's a near thing.

"We'll talk about this in the morning," he mutters. His face, so unguarded a moment ago, closes off entirely.

"Mhm," Tomas scoffs, the sound too loud in the quiet that's draped over the room. His frustration bleeds into the distance between their beds.

"In the morning," Marcus promises, but it's placating, and his heart isn't in it.

"I don't believe you," he says, bereft.

He turns over, subdued. Tomorrow, Marcus will pretend it never happened. He'll run, and avoid, and Tomas knows he'll follow wherever the older man leads. He won't upset the careful balance of their relationship, not over a misstep that, come tomorrow, he'll feel guilty over instigating anyway. 

This is why, Tomas reflects with his final bitter seconds of consciousness, he doesn't care to drink. The aftermath never seems worth the trouble.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We and Marcus have been deprived of Drunk!Tomas for too long - I saw fit to rectify this. 
> 
> The next, final chapter of this story won't be up until after next week probably, because I have two papers and presentations to contend with this coming week, so bear with me! In the meantime, comments & kudos are always appreciated down below.


	5. To Have and To Hold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter combines two of my favorite things in fic - intimate domesticity and emotional confrontation - and I'm fairly happy with how it turned out. Except I'm sorry for how LONG it took, what with school and the holidays, but thank you all for the continuous comments! Even though I wasn't able to respond properly, know that I read every one, and each one filled me with encouragement and joy. 
> 
> Just a big thank you in general for the all the wonderful responses on this fic! I had a lot of fun writing it and I'm so grateful to everyone who enjoyed the read and left comments & kudos! This fandom is small but so enthusiastic and nice and I'm glad to be a part of it.

Morning light bleeds sluggishly through the shades, drizzling golden hues over the dark locks of hair twined between his knuckles. Marcus loses track of time in his incoherence, panting harder with each second that passes, each minute an effort to stay in the moment and not run towards oblivion. Patience is a virtue, he reminds, though not one of his strongest.

"Fuck," he gasps, tightening his hold as that hot mouth sinks another centimeter over his dick. " _Christ_ , Tomas."

He's a neophyte in this as anything else, but he's  _Marcus'_  neophyte, God bless. And with regular practice Tomas has become a quick study - that, or Marcus doesn't have a very high standard in this area of expertise. In either case, he isn't concerned by the amateurish technique or the restraint of keeping his hips from bucking with abandon because nothing,  _nothing_  is better than Tomas glancing up at every weak noise that erupts from his throat, trying to gauge if what he did was  _good._ Thatlook alone is enough to goad him to climax.

Urgently, Marcus tugs at his hair and Tomas groans, the vibrations scattering across his all sensitive nerve endings. His dick twitches in perfect agony and it's all he can do not to spill over those obscenely reddened lips that are twisted in a moue. His chin tilts up at Marcus' bidding, hazy-eyed and questioning, the minor flash of annoyance swallowed by his blush.

"C'mere," he rasps, and, earlier intent forgotten, Tomas obediently climbs up so they're chest to chest, mouths angled for a messy kiss. Marcus rakes his palms over fluttering muscle, down to a narrow waist, and lower still he digs into the firmness of his ass. Tomas arches into the touch, moaning when two fingers slip into the cleft, abruptly. 

Marcus laps up every sound, greedy for any bit he can get, covetous in a way he can't remember being. To be fair, he can't remember anything so sweet as Tomas when he pushes back against his fingers while they slide deeper, fucking in slow, dirty strokes. 

Tomas groans, teeth scraping his clavicle. " _Marcus_ ," he cries, as if he can't  _help_  how the name is choked out of him, and stifles his shouts against Marcus' skin, covering it with slurred, open-mouthed prayers, whispered like it's sacred ground. Suddenly he bites down, sharp enough that Marcus grunts, grabbing a fistful of hair and reveling in the whimper it wrings. Tomas seeks friction with stuttering hips, his cock heavy and leaking, trapped in the grind of their bodies; the drag of hard flesh against his stomach is intoxicating, and Marcus finds his own relief in the slick heat between Tomas' thighs, that clench around his dick with each thrust.

"Atta boy," Marcus murmurs, and it's this husky groan of approval that sends Tomas spiraling over the edge, shaking apart until he's still, wetness smeared over his stomach. All of him goes taut, constricting around Marcus like the warmest of vices, and  _fuck_ , that's all it takes for him to follow, a release so satisfying it leaves his whole body lazy, tingling with aftershocks. 

Just as their position begins to become uncomfortable, Tomas tugs the sheet free from where it is bunched around their waists and wipes off the both of them, shivering as he slides the fabric between his thighs. Marcus lets him finish up - he'll hear the complaints later, if he doesn't - before he rolls so they lay tangled in each other's arms, cooling in the afterglow. He rests his ear over a heart that's yet to steady itself after being pushed to ecstasy and the erratic beat of it is the stuff of songs and poetry. Closing his eyes, Marcus finds he is irrepressibly content with this moment.

"Marry me?" he drawls, sounding half-asleep and altogether too pleased. A hoarse chuckle reverberates under his chin.

"Technically, I could marry us," Tomas points out, cheekily. Marcus blames his own bloody influence. "I  _am_  a priest."

"Hence why marriage is a bit of sacrilege."

"I've already broken a vow or two." Tomas feigns nonchalance, trailing his fingers up Marcus biceps. "I don't suppose one more will do any harm."

"That's Protestant talk," Marcus grumbles, slithering up so he can worry that dwindling pulse-point in between his teeth. Tomas wheezes in the back of his throat, unprepared, though neither of them mind this particular brand of bruising.

"But you..." Tomas mutters, once he's caught his breath. He sits up on his elbows, curls askew in a way that makes the blood inside Marcus stir wildly. Except Tomas has that look in his eye, the one that says he's got a hold of an idea he ain't keen on releasing, not unlike a stubborn dog with a bone clamped in its jaw. "You aren't a priest."

"Somebody's been paying attention." On a wave of impulse, Marcus buries his face in that crook of his neck, brushing his nose over sweat-dampened skin that carries the faint scent of lavender. Courtesy of the soap Tomas pocketed from the last motel, because he didn't fancy reeking of gasoline for another fifty miles. The space where neck meets shoulder is humid, the air oppressed with pleasure; Marcus drinks it in until his lungs can't hold anymore.

When he emerges, a furrow has appeared between dark brows, affecting Tomas with a lovely sort of consternation. "What I mean is that if you," he begins, haltingly. "If you ever wanted something...something more..."

He grapples visibly for the word. It can't be easy, what with how Marcus continues to plunder the spot just below his ear, one that normally derails the conversation with unanimous success. Nevertheless, Tomas treads on valiantly.

"Official," he manages, at last. The word is spoken at the ceiling, almost with reverence. "A  _real_  sacrament."

Reluctantly, Marcus moves so his palms are pressed flat into the spring-laden mattress that creaks with every shift. The discussion can't be avoided any longer, judging by the swell of anxiety that sticks in his gut like tar. Tomas is splayed beneath him, an alter in his own right; Tomas, who is not intimidated as he was in St. Aquinas, no longer flinches under the scrutiny. He's laid out in the most vulnerable position imaginable, yet he gazes at Marcus with all the trust of Job's young son, all the faith of Abel who walked aside his brother without fear. For Marcus, the revelation is one bitter blow after another.

"With someone else, you mean," says Marcus, and it comes out jagged, more than he intended.

Tomas parts his lips but is silent, throat working around his reply. Marcus swings his legs over the bed; meanwhile, the springs shriek with dismay. His shorts are scattered at the edge of the bed and he slips them on quickly, and in silence. 

Still in the throes of his post-orgasm lull, Tomas doesn't immediately wrap his head around this until he's already tugged on a shirt. With a jolt to his spine, he utters a stiff, "Where are you going?" 

"Out," Marcus informs, clipped and cold.

Growing more alert by the second, Tomas hits him with the full-force of that earnest, honey-drizzled stare. "Listen," he appeals, and to his credit, he sounds calm. Below the calm, however, there is a frantic note Marcus doesn't care to examine.

"No, I heard," he says, hollowly.

"But you didn't  _listen,_ " Tomas snarls in frustration. His attempt to launch out of bed is thwarted by his uncooperative legs, ensnared by the tussled sheets. He's got no hope of catching up and there is nothing he can do short of plead. "Marcus, will you-"

Except by then, the door has already slammed behind him, and it's a good thing, too. Marcus isn't sure he could've left if Tomas had asked him to stay.

*

*

*

*

The problem with storming out in this manner is that Marcus never really has a plan in mind. It's dramatic as all hell, which of course suits his purpose and his personality, but the satisfaction wears off once he finds himself without a direction to go - just a vague simmer beneath his skin, desperate to blow off steam.

At 11 o'clock, it's a bit too early to pine for a pint (as far as the pubs, not Marcus, are concerned). And his sleep-rumpled appearance doesn't exactly make him ripe for polite company. Aimless, he wanders to a sunny patch of grass near the middle of the side-of-the-highway town in which they've hunkered down, disposed to wile away an hour or so before giving the search for booze another go. 

Some lad waltzes up to him - as if his unwashed, unshaven face coupled with his wrinkled clothes arouse any sense welcome, and honestly, he ought to scold the kid for being a little soft in the head on that - asking if he can spare a dollar for the vending machine. Feeling magnanimous, Marcus shells out a few singles, considering it his act of charity for the month. Unbeknownst to him, the kid has a gaggle of friends vying in wait, who surround him with their beseeching, upturned palms. The execution of this scam is impressive, enough to be admired; within ten minutes, those lil' extortionists bleed him dry.

No money means no booze, and this sours his temper worse than before as he lounges on a bench, mourning his sketchbook. A quail murmurs nearby and he yearns to ink an image that will match its song. So engrossed by his gloom, he barely notices the old biddy who sits aside of him, a basket of knitting gear perched on her lap.

She squints at Marcus, shrewd as you like. Eventually, she asks, "What did you do?" 

Marcus turns to her, brow cocked. He hunches inwards, defensively; the last thing he fucking needs is a run-in with the coppers for whatever crime she's pegged him for. Disturbing the pigeons, maybe?

Her white curls swish under her cap as she shakes her head. "You have the look my wife gets when she's done me wrong." She barrels down at him with accusing stare. "And she  _knows_  it."

And Marcus can't help chuckling wryly at her bold-as-brass attitude. He's endeared at the resemblance to Mother Bernadette, and with a pang of fondness, reaches for the rosary on his wrist. Only to find it bare, the crucifix discarded on in their motel. Ah, he remembers; Tomas unwinding it with care and placing it on the bedside table before pulling him in for a languorous kiss (being stabbed by a rosary given to you by a nun tends to , they've learned).

Now another pang hits him like a bullet square in the chest. A longing that not even his anger can match, deep as it is, embedded in his bones. As he sits here blowing smoke, Tomas is awaiting his return. Presumably worried about him, or cross with him, or a righteous mixture of the two.

"I feel like I've been caught by the nun at parochial school," he admits, sheepishly.

"Then maybe you ought to head for confession," she sniffs, and oh, if she knew how on the dot that is. "And a word of advice."

Obligingly, Marcus lends an ear.

"Bring 'em something nice," she advises and pats his knee, shooing him like an errant cat. "Nothing smooths things over like a present." 

*

*

*

*

The knock isn't merely for show - in his haste, Marcus forgot his key.

But in hindsight, the blunder is worthwhile, because he gets to watch Tomas open the door and the flit of emotions across his face, bewildered to indignant in an instant. He takes in the sight of Marcus, sporting a new hand-knitted scarf and a grin swathed in even warmer layers of charm; it doesn't exactly make him swoon. Luckily, Marcus took precautionary measures, and before Tomas can blink, he thrusts the gift forward.

Caught off-guard, Tomas blinks down at the bouquet. "You actually brought me  _flowers_?"

For all his wistful talk of soft beds and home-cooked meals, Marcus knows he isn't one to be impressed by sterling silver or golden trinkets; he is a sentimentalist, through and through. The type to write love-letters and keep them stashed in a box; the type to tear up when he tells his nephew he misses him over the phone, during calls that are perhaps too few and far in-between.

At any rate, the flowers serve to distract him so Marcus can sneak inside. The room appears to have been aggressively tidied in his absence; Tomas is his grandmother 's child, and as any grandmother knows, idle hands are tools for mischief. 

"What can I say? Don't fancy a night on the couch." Marcus shrugs.

"We don't have a couch."

"The truck, then."

Tomas pins him with a glare. Too late he realizes that his charm is wasted on a man who's seen him at his most wretched. Back in Chicago, at his apartment; the pews of St. Anthony's, after his excommunication; earlier this week, when he got tipsy and waxed poetically for almost an  _hour_  about the way light refracted off Tomas' irises-

"You know," says Tomas, indignant, arms crossed. Then he sighs, the ire burning off its hardened crust, clearing the way for exasperation. "You're a difficult man to talk to."

"I know," Marcus concedes. He waits a beat before he speaks again. "For the record, you're a difficult man to fight with."

Just barely, the corner of his mouth turns up, pulled by a invisible string. Bemused, Tomas takes the bouquet, curling the dainty petals between his fingertips. He marvels at their realness, his smile curving sincerely. Marcus suspects he's always been somewhat of a romantic at heart. 

"Did you buy these?" he asks, surprised. Too surprised to be flattering, really.

"Nah. Nicked 'em from a funeral that was passing by," Marcus replies. The glower of disapproval he receives is priceless, though after returning to his good graces, it seems foolish to risk sleeping in the truck, now that he's gone and given him the idea. "Relax, 'm  _kidding_."

"You're ridiculous," Tomas scoffs, but it treads the line of a laugh too closely to be condemning. His misgivings are gradually fading from sight, as they had a month ago, after the incident of the drunken kiss. Tomas let him off the hook then and he probably will now. 

Maybe he shouldn't.

Marcus frowns, the apology aborted at the tip his tongue. And it isn't pride that stops him from saying he's sorry for leaving Tomas this time, last time, and what will inevitably be the next. It isn't the fact that he's bound to come back or the question of why should he sink to his knees, when Tomas has proven his unlimited capacity to forgive? No, it's something far simpler and altogether more pathetic; he isn't accustomed to apologies, is what it is.

Never had a reason to practice, because in his history of ill-begotten trysts and unwise attachments, Marcus has always been too quick to run or too late to act. 

And he recognizes that this  _something beautiful_  that exists between him and Tomas is impermanent. It lives in the driver and passenger seats of their old weather-beaten truck, lies between the sheets of shabby motels staffed by indifferent employees. Goddamn fool that he is, Marcus is not  _stupid_  - as such, he isn't in any hurry to give up this little slice of heaven they've carved out for themselves. The draw of this self-awareness is that Marcus exists in a constant state of waiting for the other shoe to drop, braced for the clap of thunder that'll rend this picture to pieces.

Sabotage doesn't seem so bad a crime when you don't have much to hope for. But...that can't be a nice way to live, can it? It isn't fair to him and it certainly isn't fair to Tomas. 

He exhales through his nose and feels it rattle through his bones like an tempest. "You have to understand," he says, thickly.

"I want to," says Tomas, so desperate that Marcus actually winces. His feet ache to pace, release some of this restless energy - but he needs to handle this properly, he decides. He sits down on the bed, gravity doing most of the work. Following his lead, Tomas settles at his side.

"You have to understand that I... I've gotten used to you. Used to _this."_  And he emphasizes the two of them, nestled together, near enough that if Marcus let his head list slightly to the right, it'd be on Tomas' shoulder.

Tomas doesn't look especially wooed by this declaration, yet he nods.

"Guess I was so taken by the thought of being wanted that, you having doubts-" Marcus swallows a mouthful of detriments and purses his lips in a grin. Even that is dripping self-depreciation. "Well. Gave me some doubts, myself."

Which isn't to say Marcus didn't have doubts already. Doubt is the sense he has every time this routine puts Tomas in harm's way on his watch, doubt that he's doing the right thing, steering Tomas down this path. There's nothing noble in a love that will lead to ruin, he reminds, although it's a bit late for that.

"Of course I want this. Want  _you_ ," says Tomas, gently. With his confidence, it  _sounds_  like a vow. Like Tomas will never tire of him, never wear out his devotion. That's a heady concept, knowing he's loved so completely, and it stokes something in Marcus that begs to be aflame.

"But I've made this mistake before," he sighs, and while he doesn't mention her name, Marcus reads  _Jessica_  writ in bold print. 

"There's a burden of walking into something you realize can't be..." He struggles, briefly. Tomas is always mindful of his words, searching for the right ones. Marcus anticipates that every word will be the last, so he rarely exhibits the same caution. " _Legitimized_. Not by the law or by God."

He glances at Marcus through his lashes.  "And I don't even know if that's important to you, but-"

No, Marcus agrees ruefully. It isn't as though they've talked. About what this partnership is, what they are. Everything is expressed tacitly, the scrape of antiseptic over bruised knuckles, the brush of fingers against a naked collarbone, fleeting hands smoothed over scars and scrubbed over tears. 

"All I'm trying to say is that I. I won't hold it against you, if - if you decide, maybe  _this_  isn't enough."

He rears up sharply at that and nearly butts into Tomas, who's shifted so he is squarely in his line of sight; no chance of escape. He turns Marcus' chin and slots his palm against the unwashed scuff of his cheek, the pad of his thumb roving over the ghost of a kiss he'd planted there this morning. 

"Marcus," he insists in that soft, emphatic way he has. The one that sweeps people off their feet and allows no room for argument. "You deserve to be happy."

If he wasn't quivering before, surely he is now. His skin feels too thin, ready to burst at the seams from the force of this love, mortal though it may be. Marcus clamps down on the urge to spill his filthiest, most adoring thoughts for this man. Instead he dredges up a smile, the one he's learned does awful, amazing things to his partner. 

"For better or for worse?" he hedges. Tomas deflates a little in laughter. 

"Who says I'm not happy?" In one deft movement, Marcus rolls them onto the bed. It takes a bit of finagling to get Tomas on his back while he puts up the pretense of a fight, the unhelpful brat, wriggling and bucking until he's satisfied with his new position, positively beaming with Marcus trapped between his legs, unable to run out on him again. He caresses the fringe of hair at his temples as Marcus leans into the pet with the starvation of a stray brought in from the cold. 

"It was never the sacrament that mattered," he mutters, encircling the wrist before Tomas can pull it away. "My folks were married by the grace of God and look how well it served 'em."

The relief in Tomas' eyes shines fever-bright. Looking down at him, at the way he opens up with the slightest provocation, ready to receive and willing to give everything, Marcus staggers under a wave of bafflement, wonders how he could ever consider leaving (knowing full well that in the future he'll find a reason, if need be, but  _always_  with the intent to return).

Still, Tomas is nothing if not obstinate. As if remembering this, he whispers, "You might change your mind."

"Possibly," Marcus says without conviction. He places a kiss right at the blessed pulse that skips beneath his touch, meeting his gaze through stern, half-lidded eyes. "Don't count on it."

Under his partner's rapt attention, Marcus bends so they're sharing air in the thin space between mouths. "Face the facts, Tomas," he chuckles. "You're stuck with me. 'Till death do us part."

"Hah," Tomas snorts, shuddering with delight. He reaches up and wraps his arms around Marcus' back, bringing their bodies flush together. "I guess I can live with that."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had most of this written out before the finale, but I'd like to thank the show for confirming my headcanon that, when overcome with emotion, Marcus Keane does in fact slink away like the stray cat he is and Tomas is prone to making sad eyes at everyone until he returns. 
> 
> Come say hi, yell about fic or sad priests over at [tumblr](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/logicalbookthief).
> 
> Last but not least, Happy New Year's to everyone - hoping it brings good news for you in 2018 and hopefully news of a Season 3.


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